


The Black Bagheera

by Kardinalka



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014), modern!au - Fandom
Genre: Armand - Freeform, Captain Treville - Freeform, Cardinal Richelieu - Freeform, M/M, Modern Trevilieu, Modern musketeers, Renaud Mary, Trevilieu, black bagheera, modern!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-11-29 15:24:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11443686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kardinalka/pseuds/Kardinalka
Summary: Modern Trevilieu from the beginning. Cars, bikes and suits. What can I say more.





	1. Matra-Simca Bagheera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern Trevilieu from the beginning. Cars, bikes and suits. What can I say more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thank very much to FreyaLor for her help with the translation into English. Freya, you're great, without you I couldn't publish!
> 
>  
> 
> I would be grateful for any response :-)

The Czech version is [here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11444484/chapters/25649040) 

                                

 

 

 

 

 

I don't know if there is any car that's more extreme. Not really. Riding it is exciting in many ways.

 

I drove it only once before, as a little boy. My uncle got me in that ride, I remember that was just a pilgrimage, I was sticky from the pink cotton candy, held a cone of sweets on my lap. I was sitting between two adults and looking, fascinated, at this dashboard that looked like space shuttle commands. The car was red, and on the hood a dashing eagle was painted.

My uncle was quite a character. I don't even know if he still has that car. This is the kind of car you drive when you are young, right until your first collision with reality. Not only you have to squeeze yourself tightly into this car and feel the tarmac right beneath you, you also have hardly no visibility.

 

This is definitely no family car. This small coupe can accommodate at most three very small people sitting in the front next to each other. When you tell them that it's a rear wheel drive, they shrug and grumble. When then ascertain that the engine is 30 cm behind their seat, they get slightly nervous. And when, as a cherry on the explosive cake, you throw in the information that the tank is right next the engine, behind the driver's seat, most want to step out and continue on foot. Indeed, in the front there is only the hood, any crumple zone virtually missing.

 

It's a Matra Bagheera.

 

My uncle had a red one, and was a movie star wherever he went. I was spellbound by her as a small child, and I swore to myself that if I ever became filthy rich, I'd buy it. Even if all I'd drive it for is for errands. And it would be black. Pampered, polished, piano-black. A beautiful rear wheel drive, a joy to drive through every corner. I did mention this dream of mine to my wife, but my enthusiasm was not shared. As I understood later, There wasn't a lot she did share with me.

 

Matra Bagheera.

 

I see her from time to time, waiting in the street behind the police station, among all those spineless SUV,  crouching on the ground like a black cat waiting for a mouse. I'm sure there are more expensive cars, I'm sure they are faster ones, certainly more secure, so, my beauty, why are you there? Who do you bring joy to?

Whenever I catch a glimpse of her long shark's snout, I can't help but wonder who her owner would be. But I never met him. Once she passed me at the intersection, but through the tainted glass I couldn't see anyone. Who rides such a car? I'd be worried if I was him, but what scares me, attracts me all the same.

 

 

And then came the 2th May, a day so very beautifully commonplace if it wasn't for a minor event that changed everything. On Tuesday 2th May, the roads around the police station were being cleaned. There were service trucks all around, the demarcated zones were marked with signs, but some big cars covered up a few of them. So, as it happened, there she ended up on a empty street, standing like an orphan, the lonely black Matra Bagheera. I came near, just as the tow men were about to pull it away.

Yes, I confess, I might have taken advantage of my position as police officer when i made arrangements to save her from the tow, and have her move just a bit further down the street, right in front of that house. I told the tow guys it was a friend's car, and that he'd owe me one for this. They had a laugh, and complied. I had her gently pulled below the sycamore tree, and somehow, I felt responsible for her.  I pulled a pack of cigarettes from my pocket and sat on the curb, my feet upon the road. I smoked and gazed into her eyes. Well, her leading lights. She even had the original Marchal lights, with that small cat's head logo, you see. I passed my finger over the plastic figure as I blew the smoke.

 

When the smoke cleared, I realized that I was staring at a pair of quilted men's shoes. I think they are called richelieu or something.

The shoes belonged to a pair of legs in dark pants. I lifted my head and tried to see the man, but I was  against the sun. I know he looked down at me though, his suit pefectly fitted. Relatively tall, about my age, but only when my eyes adjusted to the sharp light, I could inspect him in detail. The first thing I noticed were the eyes. Black eyes, or so they looked at least, against direct sunlight. I covered my eyes with one hand and said hello.

He didn't answer. He just looked at me. Dark eyes, dark eyebrows, a pronounced straight nose, mustache and goatee, narrow face framed with graying hair, sticking to the ears.  
And still staring at me without a word.

I got up nervously and asked if it was his car. As I stood i could lookt him straight in the eyes. He didn't even blink, just shooting me a glance. I sensed his disdain. The emotion came out of nowhere, I don't even know why, but that man was the embodiment of arrogance. I realized my cigarette had burned out almost to the filter, so I threw it into the canal.

 _To Hell with you_ , I thought, and turned to leave.

 

"You're the one moved her here?"

 

I stopped and dusted some sand from my pants.

"Yeah, I was just passing by, so I said that's a friend's car."

 

The man narrowed his eyes and tilted his head slightly to the side. I smiled, tucking my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket. The man blinked. Some red car came down the road, and he stepped into the shadow of the sycamore tree, closer to me. He looked like the boss of some law firm with that bloody suit. White shirt, purple tie, a red handkerchief in the pocket of his jacket, and a silver pen right next to it, shining like whitefish in the creek.

 

"She's really beautiful," I said, gesturing to the car, " I admire her whenever I see her around."

 

He lifted the right corner of his mouth. His eyes weren't black. They were brown, but ebony dark, and right then, focused on his Matra.

"You saved me a 500 Euro fee from the tow it seems." He uttered quietly. Had a melodious voice, precise pronunciation, so educated, that I suddenly felt the need to speak more politely.

"I did not do it because of that," I assured him.

  
  
He went quiet again. It seemed to me that when he was silent, the whole world was silent with him, but he looked like he was just used to it. As it occured to me, maybe he was some kind of nobleman.

 

"Why did you do that, then, captain Treville?"

 

The sentence hit like a hammer. I laughed, awkward.

"So you know me. Well, that's fine. I sometimes have to speak on TV. People don't usually recognize me in the streets though. Well that's what I thought. I guess I'm famous.“  
  
I instinctively reached for another cigarette and added : "Do _I_ know you?"

 

He pulled a silver lighter from his pocket, siwtched it on with his thumb and handed it to me. _Shit_ , I thought, a real Dupont. He noticed, and smiled.

"I like old brands." He said.

"You really can't answer a question, huh?" I sneered as i sucked from the cigarette and blew the smoke through my nose. He shut the lighter with a click and slid it back in his pocket.

 

It was weird, so very weird, no matter how many times I play that scene again in my head, it makes no sense at all. I don´t even remember my words, I just remember the feeling of a sunny afternoon under the sycamore, with flickering flashes of light upon his suit, his dark eyes, a lighter, a pen, a tie.

 

He gazed at me one last time, thrust his hand into his pocket, this time to pull out his keys. He unlocked the car and gracefully got in. He booted, and why i must have looked at him with the eyes of a ten-year-old, he nodded goodbye and left.

 

The black Matra, like a cat, flew through the street and disappeared around the the corner.

 

 

That's when I saw him for the first time. I believed it to be the last.

 

 

 

***

On the table lays a white envelope. He joked something about a bribe, I heard, but Officer Merle just shrugged, and put the envelope in my mailbox. It wasn't even sealed. I reached into it and took out the folded flyer. Red lettering „Matra-Simca“ hit me in the eyes. It was an invitation to a weekend event, an Simca owners and fans meeting at the end of July. I snickered.

I knew about these reunions, but I had never been to them. It struck me as strange, this need for owners of old cars to gather together. Owners of the old "ducks". The saab owners are almost a bloody sect. I never had the right car for those meetings anyways. My regulation Peugeot doesn't throw a lot of shade, and I hate Bikers meetings. 

 

I read through the invitation and turned it over. On the other side was the inscription:

 _"I'm not a fan of reunions, but this one is good. Because of the race track_.“

 

The author was clear, although a month had passed since my encounter with the Black matra owner.

I pinned the flyer on my bulletin board and checked my work agenda.

 

During summer holidays work hours are lighter, but of bloody course, according to Murphy's law, he picked the busiest week of July that could be. A lot of important things were scheduled there. Why did everything stick to the same moment?

 

We were approaching the traffic lights and Tremblay just lazily plugged into a row of waiting cars.

"I wanted to buy it," he noted, pointing to red Honda, standing in the next lane, "but I don't have the money..." he added bitterly.

"What would you even do with it? You'd only run over my foot." growled Porthos from the back seat.

"Look, I´ve apologized to you a hundred times, so shut up already." Tremblay cried, waving his hands over the wheel. I laughed and looked out the window at the standing Honda.

A man in a red and white jacket sat upright in the saddle, balancing the purring machine, a red helmet had resting on the tank and a phone in his hand. The shouting in our car rose to unbearable heights, and I had to look away for a moment, only to be drawn to the bike again.

 

It was the owner of the black Matra.

 

He was sliding his phone into his breast pocket and buttoning up jacket to the neck. I saw him in profile, his long straight nose, dark eyebrows and graying hair, quickly covered up by his helmet.

I looked at him like an idiot, wondering if I wanted to draw attention to ourselves or not, if I wanted to step out and wave or something stupid like that. But the red light changed to yellow and the red Honda took off with a deafening roar, disappearing between other cars.

 

 

Back in the office, I looked at the flyer, which had been covered by new circulars and drafts in the meantime.

 

The meeting is on the next Sunday.


	2. 'The World is full of black cars'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Great thanks to FreyaLor for her betareading!!!

 

 

 

 

 

My shift schedule gave me a free weekend, and because the weather was good enough, I decided to take my Ducatti out for a ride. I only realised I was heading in the right direction by the growing number of vintage classic cars crossing my path.

 

The stalls and tents were already unpacked in the meadow around the racetrack, light beer and lemonade sold everywhere, and kids running with ice lollies between parked cars.

I left the bike behind a stand and slid in between cars. They all shone in the sun like african beetles. On the circuit a few of them were roaring, but it was only recreational rides, none of them making any attempt to compete. Two men in reflective vests were sticking racing numbers on some of the cars. The main race was to start two hours later.

 

A girl from a beer booth called out to me, asking me if I wanted beer, and showing me a wide tent where I could dispose of my helmet. I met some guy there, obviously in charge of the registration of racers. He asked me what kind of bike I had and suggested I'd rather park her in the shade, behind the  camping cars, because that's where he put his own bike.

With my beer in my hand, I weaved in and out the crowd and the cars. I was very intrigued by the yellow Murena, but I'was still looking for a black Bagheera. I found some, but black-and-red, or silver-and-red. Even one that was bright pink, but never full black.

It's not so rare a colour, though. I clenched my beer goblet in my teeth to pull out my cell phone. It was 14:25. and the main race the main race was supposed to start at 16:00.

As I had the phone in hand, I made a few photos of the cars, which, of course, pleased their owners to no end. Some pretty blonde in a pink dress willingly posed near her pink Matra. Well, she basically  laid down on the hood, attracting another bidder for pictures. I think she liked me, because she offered me a ride. 'Why not', I said with a smile,  crawling clumsily into the cabin. She took the road, but didn't come anywhere near the racetrack. She said she was afraid to ride on the circuit or something. So she just went around the racetrack. 'Not to worry' she said, 'we'll be back soon'.

 

"And what's your name?" I asked.

 

"Annette. You can call me Annette. I'm here for the eighth time already, what about you?“ she threw me, her eyes glowing blue. I guessed she just fancied older bikers.

"Jean. I'm here for the first time, I was invited by-“ I froze. What to say exactly? By a man I don't even know who found me sitting on the floor checking his car out?

"- a colleague. He owns a black Bagheera. Probably isn't here yet.“

 

She counted on her fingers; tapping on the steering wheel.

"Well, I know three black Bagheera's owners. One of them won't be there this year, he's from Bordeaux, the other is from Dijon, but I think he sold his car.“

 

She fell silent.

 

 "And the third?" I inquired. She shook her head.

 

"Well, I don't know his name, but he's a good friend of Galabru, the main organizer. Perhaps he's even in the staff too, I don't know. What is the name of your colleague?“

 

Hell, here it is. Well, his name might just be...

"He's a Jean too, we've barely known each other from work, but he has a black Matra. I don't know much more, I fear.„

It wasn't completely a lie. And I was proud of myself, because Annette just firmly nodded, enumerating:

 

"Tall, skinny, a mustache, a goatee,... expression à la "I've got you all fucked up and I love it"?

 

"Yeah, that's him!" I laughed.

 

She said no more, and after a while, I politely asked what gave her the idea of having her car painted pink, but I didn't really care. It made her talk, that's all, and the trip back passed pleasantly.

 

When she drove back to the premises of the racecourse, I saw the black muzzle protruding from behind a staff tent. I thanked Annette for the ride and invited her in for a lemonade. Together we headed to the booth and stood in line. I suddenly felt nervous, trying not to look to the black Matra, and drowning my confused thoughts into Annette's voice. We came back to her car with our plastic cups and sat in the trampled grass. I think I just hid like a coward, intending to bid my farewell to Annette, take my bike and go back home. This whole thing was flat-out crazy, and made no sense at all. I drove all the way here for a man I've seen twice, one of them wanting to punch him hard.

 

'Maybe it's not him' I thought, 'the World is full of black cars.'

 

I lost myself in pondering, far, so far from Annette's voice. She had no idea how far gone I was, and the thought scared me.

 

She was exactly my type, though. Cheerful, not too skinny, a little goofy. Holy shit, what was I doing there! I tried to stand up, but i tripped like an idiot and spilled my drink into the grass. I made up the excuse of having to buy a new one, and slid from the line of cars to a narrow tarmac road and headed for my bike.

 

'Fuck, I'm nothing but an ass.'

 

 

 

****  

 

 

 

 

He threw his empty cup into the trash, pulled a key from his pocket, turned the ignition, pulled the choke, and realized he had left the helmet in the staff tent. He cursed, and head back. 

 

"Won't you wait until the race?"

 

He froze and tried to not look too stupid when he stared into the man's dark eyes. He was wearing a white shirt, unbuttoned neck, and dark pants. His shoes couldn't be seen in the tall grass. He wore that exact expression, the one Annette described so beautifully. Jean remembered it and smiled.

 

"Is it worth it?" Treville asked.

"It's going to the fastest lap." The man replied and tightened his fingers around his car keys.

"Are you in?"

 

"No."

 

Jean looked surprised.

 

"No? Weird, you seemed like the competitive type.“

 

The man's lips spread into a smile.

"Really? I wonder why. In any case, I'm not.“

 

Treville turned to his bike and locked the ignition. He heard the man's footsteps in the grass, coming closer behind his back, and eyeing the Ducatti.

 

"So come on.„ Jean said with a smile. “Let's look at that famous race."

 

The man stretched out his hand and closed the choke. Then held out his hand and the keys to the Captain and spoke, simple as linen canvas :

 

"Do you want to drive?"

 

A simple question, and yet immense. Treville´s heart skipped a beat with joy.

"Yeah, but-" he could only indulge on one condition, "what's your name? I don't get into strangers' cars.“

 

The man smiled again.

 

"Armand." he introduced himself.

 

"Jean." said Treville and shook his hand.

 

A bit late, perhaps, Jean realized Armand didn´t expect a handshake, just a transfer of keys. For a moment Armand froze and his eyes widened in surprise. But his slender fingers tightly clenched Jean´s hand in the end. Treville feared he probably crossed a line, but decided to pretend he didn't notice anything.

 

"So, can we go...? "He prompted, excited.

 

He almost jumped when he got the keys into his palm. He still walked to the Matra, unlocked it, crawled inside and started the car. Then he stuck his head out the door.

 

"Aren't you coming with me?"

 

Armand looked quite, but slightly raised his eyebrows, considering his options, and finally walking around his car and sitting down next to Treville. Jean turned on the opening of the front lights but Armand pushed a button and the lights slid back into place.

Jean accidentally set off the wipers and quickly turned them off, ranking number one and slowly pulling out onto the access road. He remembered to buckle up, and hastily grabbed the belt and tried to snap the lock during the ride, but failed. Armand took the belt from his hand without a word and clicked it aroud him in one motion.

 

"Thanks." Jean stammered.

 

The track was almost empty, only the last two cars went in close tow behind.

The Black Matra slid on the track. Jean was beyond excited. He drove carefully and slowly at first, but soon enough he caught up with the pair of cars in front of him. He dutifully ranked for them and enjoyed the ride.

 

"You are like a Driving miss Daisy." Armand commented.

 

"I'm driving it for the very first time, it's amazing." Jean announced, somewhat puzzled. He felt like a kid on a bumper car, except that he really shouldn't bump into anything.

 

"You don't want to pass those?" his passenger tried with a nervous voice.

 

"I thought you weren't the competitive type!" The captain reminded him with a sneer. He heard the man sigh.

 

"I'm not, but this zen ride is a torture." he explained, frustrated.

 

Even if Treville´s heart bled, he got off the track at the first exit and stopped on the side of the road.

"Show me then, how she's to be driven." he smiled as he eased out of the cab. Armand got in the driver's seat and clicked his seat belt. He waited until the captain got in, and rushed towards the track.

 

The centrifugal force stuck Jean in the seat so hard he could barely buckle up. The engine roared tremendously, and Treville couldn't understand how someone could shift gears so quickly. Without realizing it, they were already in the middle of the circle and the blue Simca in front of them was approaching at the speed of a thrown ball. He went around her by the left side, picked while skidding on the grass and rushed sideways into a tight right-hander.

Treville was burrowing his fingers into the padding, staring at the small white car, which rather hastily rolled off the line. Around the circuit the crowd started gathering. The second round went even faster, and for the third, they had the track for themselves. The Matra whizzed in a series of controlled skids, and with a sharp brake, stopped neatly at the impound lot.

 

Captain felt his heart in his throat, his head pounding, his fingers clenched into the upholstery so hard it started to hurt.

 

"It was divine!" he breathed shakily. Unwittingly using one of his subordinates' favourite phrase. The one called Porthos.

 

"I mean, I almost dropped out, but it was awesome!"

 

Jean was sweating, though a mere passenger. He looked at Armand and saw how a drop of sweat running down along his temple too. Armand lifted his hand from the steering wheel to ruffle his hair and Treville smelled in that moment some kind of wood scent he couldn't name, because all he knew was stupid Old Spice, and of course this would be some sort of 1000 euros Chanel, so he didn't want to ask. But it smelled nice.

 

"You're next." Armand said as they got out of the car, swapping places. Treville put his belt on, grabbed the steering wheel with both hands trying to stay cool.

 

 

So okay, here we go!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you likes it :-) I look forward to your comments.


	3. "Armand Newman"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sending a big thanks to FreyaLor, for betareading and for all help! :-*

 

I was rushing on the circuit, positioning myself as quickly as possible, and tore the corner, though not as expertly as he did. But it didn't matter, I didn‘t mind. He let his arm out the window to brace himself on the roof, and I think I caught a glimpse of him sticking his head against the headrest. I threw him a quick glance, fearing he might have been sick, but he was smiling and his eyes were closed.

He opened them for a second, only to close them again in a burst of laughter. 

 

He laughed, he truly laughed and I started to smile back, relaxing as my confidence grew fast.

 

I suddenly realized I was driving the craziest sports car my country ever produced, and yet I felt  _fearless_. It didn’t matter how close to the tank I sat, or how I’d end up squeezed by the engine like a bookmark in a Bible in case of frontal collision. Right then, everything made sense, and I rushed through clouds of dust, screeching out of the turn to the sound of his laughter. 

 

Giggling like a madman, I drove back on the track. Whoever drove a fastcar knows how the Devil always whispers „close your eyes“. Your brain screams for you to watch out and keep your eyes on the track, but that sly, devilish voice always remains. Driving a sports car is a struggle with the Devil, a war against yourself. 

 

„Close your eyes“ the Devil said.

 

And him. Him, was laughing like a demon, covering his eyes with both his hands.

 

When I hit the brakes, it seems there was already a tight pack or admirers. We heard a rumbling sound of applause as I put in neutral and glanced at him. He was still smiling, his eyes half-closed gazing out the windshield. But in a heartbeat he leant close and looked at me. His eyes danced with a sparkle I couldn’t name, his perfume filling my air. I stared wordlessly at him, at the unbuttoned collar of his wet shirt, at his thin heaving chest, at his lips, at those glistening teeth threatening me behind that satisfied smile. 

 

"You're not the worst, Captain." He quietly rated my performance. 

 

Someone came to the car and bent to the open passenger window. It was Galabru, holding a pen and paper in his hand. 

 

"Hey!“ He called out to me. „Can you make a test lap?" 

 

Feeling lost, I raised my eyebrows. I didn’t understand why it was me he was looking at. Surely he knew it wasn’t my car. 

 

"You'd run against the clock, to settle the bar for the next race..."  He explained to me.

 

"Of course, he'll do it." Armand spoke in my place, taking off his seat belt. He got out and slammed the door. 

 

"Show me what you can do, Captain." He uttered gently, and knocked on the Matra´s roof.

 

 

I rushed off. I felt the need to show him exactly that.

I drove the fastest I could until I passed the finish line, and I parked at the end of the line of racing cars. I got out and closed the door. 

 

"Oh my God, he touched your Matra... shall I kill him?" I heard an overly shocked voice gasp behind me. 

 

I turned around to find the clear blue eyes of a young man in a black biker jacket. Meanwhile, the speakers announced the incoming start of the race. Armand, leaning on the side against the door of a yellow Murena to watch the first racers, smacked the young man on the arm with the back of his hand. The biker looked like he understood the gesture very well, and nodded a short greeting towards me as he bit his lips in guilt.

 

"What's your bike?" I offered him, amused. 

 

He pointed his thumb towards the caravan, next to which stood a big black „naked bike“, probably Honda. At this distance I couldn’t tell.

 

"Honda Black Spirit," he said as he took a sip of red lemonade from his plastic cup. 

 

"Pretty thing“ I mused. „I have a Ducati Monster."

 

He raised his eyebrows and a few drops of lemonade ran down his chin to his jacket. 

 

"That's great," he muttered, wiping the soda from his jacket. Galabru, loudspeaker in hand, started to position the racers. After a while he declared the race ready to start. The young man handed the cup to Armand and nodded towards me again. 

 

"Enjoy the race," he threw me over his shoulder and stepped into the crowd close to the start line. 

 

The large speakers started blasting music and the first racer, a red Murena, rushed on the track. I watched the show, safe from the excited crowd. The music went from oldies from Noir Desir to ACDC or Prodigy's and others that I couldn’t name. Some racers took themselves quite seriously, considering performance as life necessity. After crossing the finish line they cranked the engine until it roared, waving like champions on way the to the parking. Even the yellow Murena raced and exceeded my time, pushing me higher in position.

 

"Why don’t you race?" I couldn't resist asking.

 

Armand had been standing next to me the  whole time, his hand shielding his eyes from the  sun. 

 

"I don't need to prove how good I am to anyone. Not even myself.“ 

 

"I think you should go." I cheered. "Kick their ass." 

 

"I'm not Paul Newman, Captain." he smiled as he took a sip of the red lemonade. 

 

"Yeah, I know what you're not, there's a lot more that you’re not. Thing is I still don't know who you are. So right now, you are Paul Newman for all I care.“ 

 

Some young brunette in shorts trotted towards us, papers  and race plates in her hands.

 

"Mr. Galabru asks if you want to be in for the race?" 

 

"Sign mr. Jean Treville in,“ Armand chuckled, pointing at me. „ I need to get rid of him. Can you give me his number, Susan?“ 

 

"Yeah." the girl nodded as she pulled two colored plastic squares with the number 36 out of a stack of papers to give them to him.

 

"Here’s some tape," she added, handing him a small roll of adhesive.

 

She flashed Armand a sweet grin, insisting gently:

"What about you then?" 

 

I snatched the list from her hands, cutting in: 

"Of course he's in". I claimed, crossing my own name and writing instead:

 

 - _Armand Newman, Bagheera n. 36-_

 

I gave her back the list and lifted two thumbs up.

"Thanks!" She cheered.

 

"The dice are cast." I proudly declared. He didn't say anything.

 

I attached one number 36 a side of the car. I vaguely heard the brunette make her report to the race staff and they welcomed it with their hands in the air and a delighted shout:

"HURRAY, FINALLY!" 

 

Armand stuck the number on the other door and got into the car. I rubbed my neck nervously. 'For God’s sake say something', I scorned at myself. 

 

"And why is it all black? I've learned it's not the original paint.“

 

"Bahgeera was black.“ He muttered as he slammed the door. „Didn't you read Kipling?"

 

I raised an eyebrow. It was so damn obvious, how the hell didn’t I think of that in all this time?  I thought I saw him smile at my slow understanding, but maybe it was just a game of shadows. He started the car, backed out of the line of and drove off to the start.

 

The speakers started booming guitar riffs, much louder by then. I saw the young biker in the black jacket hurry away from the laptop connected to the audio system. 

I didn't know that song, but it was some american psychedelic rock, Porthos listened to in the car sometimes. The guitar was soon joined by a male voice:

 

_Rollin' fast down I-35,_

_Supersonic overdrive_

 

Armand cast a glance filled with hatred at a delightfully satisfied Galabru as he clenched his slender fingers around the steering wheel. 

 

_Rollin' fast down I-35,_

_Thru the day and past the night._

 

And on the punch of the drum, he set off. 

 

The song was blasting the open space and collided with roaring engines and squealing tires. It was a crazy ride of skids and drifts, at the end of the second verse of the song the Bagheera hurled to the finish line. Crowd was insane, yelling, whistling and stomping.

But then the Matra hit the brakes hard, spinning around twice and coming to a halt right before the finish line, muzzle a few yards away from the mark on the ground. A thick cloud of dust passed over the car like a tidal wave, and for a moment, there was complete, utter silence. 

 

 

_Rollin' fast down 75,_

_Empty road, moonlit sky_

 

The engine roared and the black Matra backed away from the finish line a few yards more, teasing it like a cat.

The crowd howled. Galabru next to me shouted something, but the music and the people swallowed the sound. I had to laugh, watching the track, Armand’s driving like a movie played backwards. 

 

After a while the Matra gently rolled over the finish line and stopped.

The crowd burst. 

 

Annette appeared next to me, prancing in her pink dress, and her arms circled my waist. I saw that young biker finger-whistling like crazy, careful not to spill any more liquid on his jacket. 

 

Armand looked straight at me though the driver window, looking unmoved by what happened around him, his expression made of pure „ You're fucked and I'm enjoying it".

 

He stomped on the gas once. The song was over. The Bagheera rolled around the bend on the ad libs like a fucking video clip.

 

Annette grabbed my jacket and squealed: 

„Your friend, he's badass!“ 

 

I smiled, but something in me didn’t want Armand to see her holding me like that. Well. Too late for that. Shit happens.

 

„I pissed him off, right?“ I threw over at the young biker in black who was approaching me.

 

„I think you amused him a lot“ he snickered as he emptied his cup in a gulp.

 

„Does it make sense to ask your name?“ I inquired as the crushed his plastic cup to throw it in a garbage can.

 

 

"I'm Jussac," he introduced himself with a smile. "And don't worry, if you pissed the boss off, you'll know. Last time I angered him, he blocked the car stereo on a Conway Twitty CD and removed the control buttons. I couldn't turn it off, I had to remove the whole radio.“ 

 

I laughed. 

 

He grinned at me and buttoned his jacket up to the neck. 

"Anyway, he's not coming back. I mean, not today. Bye.“ he waved and strode back to his bike. 

 

Clearly, I was dealing with Mr. Mysterious and his family. Like Adam´s family, but with vintage cars.

 

 

 

I smelled his perfume everywhere I bloody went.

 

 

***

 

 

 

"Hey, what's that band?" I asked Porthos, when I recognized the song from the race in his music selection. The melody brought me back fourteen days ago, into that steamy day at the meeting. I remembered the black Bagheera and his owner. Not exactly for the first time, to be honest.

 

"The Black Angels. They are divine.“ 

"For you everything is divine." growled Tremblay from the back seat. 

"Shut up!" 

" Shut up both of you, I'm listening!" 

"Sorry, boss." 

 

 

Helplessness bothered me. I didn't know how to contact him. 

Yet, I suspected we would meet again. 

 

 

And I was right.

 

 

\--------

 

[The Black Angels. They are divine!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6TCG4yANgOw)


	4. Ohrwurm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first date? Maybe...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great thanks to FreyaLor for her betareading!

 

 

 

The Germans use a beautiful word for that. „Ohrwurm“. Sweet, rounded word.

Apart from the zoological meaning, it also describes a thought that sits in your head and gnaws at your mind. Most often, it's nothing more than a nosy tune or a few lyrics.

Armand could gather an extensive collection of those songs running in his head in given situations. It could be considered a side effect of his lifelong love of music, of all those years spent listening to very loud music inside cars, and perhaps a bit of those earlier days when he learned the piano.

He never saw himself as a good musician, no doubts because of his high standards.

 

He could play proper piano, he had a musical ear and did not like silence. His mind tended to overdrive in silence, his ideas mixing together in an ineffective blur. That's why he most often stuck to music, letting the rythm direct his thoughts.

Jussac couldn't comprehend someone who could type in cyrillic with all ten fingers and hum in German at the same time. But in the absence of his dear music, Armand just played the tunes engraved in his head. It had become an absolute, solid habit.

 

Armand's world was made of cars and music.

The rhythm and movement. Melody and heartbeat.

 

And his heartbeat accelerated quite oddly those days, to the thought of those icy blue eyes of Captain Treville. Whenever he thought of the Captain, he heard Shirley Bassey, or the oldies from Noir Désir, sometimes Simon and Garnfunkel, Kavinsky or Bowie.

Wasn't it strange, because those artists his mind provided him with every time the Captain was concerned, he loved them all dearly.

 

 

As he stood in front of the police station, he surprised himself with that song, whirling in his mind, coming from his childhood days, as he danced in the garden with his brother. The old Annie Cordy.

 

_Café tabac qui veut gouter mon mocha_

Treville stood in front of the entrance, a paper cup in one hand, a burning cigarette in the other, discussing vividly with three other officers.

_Café tabac qui qui veut un cigare extra_

God, I can't stop it, he thought.

_Café tabac après merveilleux repas_

He even remembered, in the background, the sound of spoons clinking on porcelain cups.

_Ya bon café en fumant fameux tabac_

A group of police officers and Jean Treville, smiling.

_Si tu l'as pas bu café chaud_

_Si tu l'as pas fumé tabac_

His ten-year-old brother holding his hands, spinning around him, singing loud and clear.

 

_Ti l'y pas grand chef au dodo_

_La doudou t'y li toi gaga_

Children laughing in the garden.

Officers laughing above those stairs.

 

\- and Armand, standing in the shade of a large sycamore tree, smiling too.-

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

I actually didn't have much of a reason to laugh, but I laughed anyways. Porthos could always find a  few words to turn any situation, however serious, into ridicule. After all, we need this ability to lift up the mood from our routine. If we can't, we don't survive. We just turn mad.

 

My cell phone began to ring in my pocket. I dropped the cigarette into the ashtray under the stairs and pulled out the damn thing. _Unknown number_ , how common. I accepted the call and spoke my usual dull sentence.

"Captain Treville, Paris National Police, I'm listening."

The phone went silence for a moment, and when the voice came, I recognized it even through the distorsion.

"Good day, captain."

I blinked. My men gestured that they were getting back in the precinct. I nodded. They waved for me to come along, but I stepped away from the entrance instead.

"Good day, how are you?" was the first thing I thought of. Clearly, nothing to die for, but at least it was  something.

"I am well, thank you. I wanted to ask if you ahd time to go out somewhere? I have fre-“

I tripped and my phone almost fell out of my hand. I picked it up fast and held it to my eara again, but it was mute. I looked at the screen. Call ended.

_For God's sake._

"No fucking way!"

I shouted angrily and tried to call back. I waited, praying for him to pick up. I heard a ringtone behind me, a slowly amplifiyng piano melody. Oh, I knew that one.

Ah. _Sinnerman._

 

"As I said, I have the day off."

I jumped and turned around, almost dropping my cellphone for the second time.

He was standing right behind me, in a white shirt and dark blue pinstripe suit, his tie one shade darker than the rest. His brown oxford shoes were worth a month of my wages. In the lapel of his jacket, a silver pen was pinned.

"Hi." I breathed, embarrassed.

He smiled at my awkwardness, hidding a thin black phone into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"I'm sorry I called“ He mused. „I shoud have come in and get myself arrested, like everyone else.“

I smiled back, putting away my own phone.

"That won't be necessary." I mumbled.

_Yeah, remember he asked you something else, heh? He was mentioning going out, you moron. Focus._

 "Did you come with the Matra?" _Almost. Next time, try harder!_

He shook his head. He pointed over his shoulder. On the side of the road stood a shiny black classic, typical 70's.

"Saab 99 turbo. I own that Bagheera for sentimental reasons, but I'm a Saab-owner at soul.“ he told me with a grin.

"Such a surprise.“ I sneered. „I thought you were a patriot.“

"I am. But surely you thow the saying. Never buy a car starting with the letter F.“

He sounded so serious, fiddling with his car keys, that I had to raise my eyebrows.

"Ford, Fiat, French." he added.

"Oh. Okay." I winced. I guess I won't mention my regulation Peugeot, then.

 

He grinned some more, staring into my eyes, eyebrows up. Clearly, he wanted an answer. I briefly wiped my clammy palms on my pants.

"Yes, going out.“ I mumbled. „You know, I'd like to, but there’s one small problem..."

He rolled his eyes, staring at the sky.

 _Hey, I know what it looks like,_ I screamed in my head, _but it’s true._ I couldn’t just leave the station, as I had ordered all my men, yelling, to stay there until the main witness has been interrogated.

 "And what, pray tell, is the nature of your problem?" he asked calmly.

"Well, haven‘t you seen the news?"

"The armed robbery at the weapon store?" he blinked. Hell, good guess.

"Yeah. Two dead, one injured witness and we have one of the perpetrators. He was hit by a car as he ran. They stole a shitload of weapons, so they're probably preparing something big. We’re running out of time, and we can’t understand a word he says.“

"Why?"

"Because we don't have an interpreter. The guy‘s Ukrainian. And because it´s bloody summertime, the court interpreter is off somewhere by the sea. My men are looking for a replacement, but-“

"I could help you with that, if you want." he stated simply. I blinked.

He stood there, strands of silver hair floating around his head. In fact, I wasn’t even surprised. I wouldn't have been surprised if he told me he could speak chinese.

"You know Ukrainian?"

"I speak Russian, and Ukrainian is close enough. Moreover, I don’t know any Ukrainian who doesn’t understand Russian.“

The cop inside me took over my mind. I pointed towards the entrance to the police station.

"So come on," I challenged him, and ran up the stairs into the open door.

 

 

 

 ---

 

 

 

 

Music from this chapter:

Café! Tabac! by Bourvil et Cordi  
[HERE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GuejpanPmRM)

Sinnerman by Nina Simone  
[HERE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QH3Fx41Jpl4)

 

 

 


	5. Everyone is afraid of Russian-speaking lawyers...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great THANKS to FREYALOR - for her betareading!

 

 

 

The entrance was guarded by a young policeman. As it banged open, two officers came rushing out, one of them, a young brunette, carrying an empty transparent jar, and the other, a forty-five sturdy bearded man, holding a laptop and a blue folder.

 

-“Anything new?“ The Captain asked.

-“He doesn't understand a word we say.“ the policewoman replied, staring nervously at the man standing next to Treville. „Or at least he pretends so.“

The Captain nodded and snapped the folder out of the bulky cop's arm. Taken aback, the man nearly dropped the computer. Treville barely noticed, gesturing towards the sharp-dressed man.

 

"Well, mr.-"

"Newman," The man in the blue suit introduced himself. Treville just snapped his fingers and pulled a thumb-up.

"Newman. Absolutely.“ He stated. „Alright, Mr. Newman will help us.“

Armand didn't move much, content to observe the Captain, unnoticed. How well he embodied the Police force at work, rubbing his hands together and firing orders.

"So Calvet, prepare the forms for the hiring of external experts, confidentiality agreements to sign, and all that mess-"

"Yes, sir!“ The woman nodded, runnign off.

"Martin, I want the whole case history ready in five. I'll keep this one.“

Trevile gave a short shake to the blue folder, handing it to Armand.

"Take a look“ he allowed. „but there's not much information..."

 

Armand took the folder and opened it.

 

The world around him suddenly narrowed to the file. He didn't notice the bearder man leaving, his eyes roaming through the text, his mind diving into analysis mode. The whole world stood by, pausing, and his mind produced a music to work upon, a rythm. Oh, well. „Take five“. Why not.

So what is there to know?

A young boy from Ukraine, about 16-17 years old, without residence permit, out of the system, working-class. Cannon meat for dirty work, refusing to speak, protecting his friends.

They have professional equipment.

They didn't steal money, but weapons. Guns get stolen because someone ordered them. Someone wealthy, powerful enough, never seen, never named.

_Prerequisites:_

This guy believes that he will get help. That if he keeps silent, he'll be alright. He's nothing but small fry, oblivious to the client's name, to the rest of the plan. He is naive, maybe, but loyal to his friends.

And yet, he has no idea what's going on.

What if his friends changed the plan, what if they want to sell the goods to someone else? What if it was their plan all the time and he just didn't know? In that case the first buyer would by furious. He would probably order an immediate intervention, and send someone directly at the police station for a quick show of force. 

_Strategy:_

Confuse him, scare him. Cops walk by pairs, so he has to go in alone.  
Everyone, in fact, is afraid of Russian-speaking lawyers...

 

 

"Mr. Newman?"

The music stopped.

 

 

He lifted his head and slapped the folder shut.

The Captain spoke to him, but he didn't sense it at first.  It didn't take a long time, only a few dozen seconds, during which he hummed and stared at a picture of the young man. Unfortunately, during those seconds, Treville was watching intently.

 

The Captain blinked in surprise.

 

If the tall man in blue was correct, Treville should start to explain the case to Armand, have him agree upon a few rules, invite another officer and a lawyer in, charging Armand with translating their questions.

He didn't like the perspective.

 

"Before all, I would like some coffee..." he announced the Captain with a broad smile.

Treville just raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah, sure..." Treville muttered, looking around. There was no one else around than the guard for the interrogation room. He couldn't send that guy away. So he simply let out „Right, then“, and went off for coffee.

 Armand was left alone with the young guard. He looked into young man´s eyes and smiled.

"I'll talk with my client." he spoke, takig it all as granted, and went for the door.

The officer did not protest, nailed to the floor. After all, resisting a man who can send his Captain for coffee with a smile and a few words wouldn't be a good idea for sure.

 

*** 

 

The young man in the interrogation room was staring at the edge of the table. He refused to utter a word and pretended to not understand French. He was obviously determined to go with this strategy,  even when as door opened again. He didn't move,he  just listened to the click of the door and the nearning footsteps.

A man came to the table and unplugged the recording microphone.

"Alright, boy. We need to clarify a few things. First, I am perfectly able to significantly shorten your life.“

 

The Ukrainian, Michal, widened his eyes at the newcomer. No, this wasn't a cop. Even with a full-blown uniform, he wouldn't even remotely look like a policeman. He looked like someone any cop would be afraid of. Some kind of lawyer, maybe.

He spoke St petersburg Russian, wearing a tailored suit, and a silver pen in his breast pocket. He reminded Michael of those pictures by Ilja Repin.

He lowered his head, clenching his hands into fists.

"I didn't say anything." he replied quietly in his mother tongue.

The man sneered, dripping with sarcasm, laying his hands on the table and looming over the boy until their noses were inches apart.

"You think yourself smart, don’t you? You think you can just wait here for a better offer for those weapons you stole. Do you take us for a bunch of _fools_ , boy?“ He hissed, his eyes burning.

Michal stared at him in confusion. The man added, growling :

"Those weapon are ours. That was the plan. My employer has charged me with taking possession of them, and that’s final.“

"Sir, I have no idea -"

The sharp-dressed lawyer grabbed Michal’s throat, his eyes piercing holes into him.

"I don't give a damn about you, or your friends, _lowlife_. I just want you to give me what’s **_mine_**.“

Michal gasped, staring.

"Sir, we stuck to the plan, everything went just fine, the weapons are hidden just as ordered, and we were waiting to be contacted ! No one told me anything about a change of plans, please, you have to believe me ! You can get me out of here, right? You promised us you would!“

The man narrowed his into slits, threw the young man against the backrest of the chair and stood up. He pulled a handkerchief out of his breast-pocket, quietly wiped his hand and turned away from Michal.

"Sir, _please_ “ the boy begged. „Help me out of here."

The man was silent. The boy behind him burst into tears.

"Who else did you plan to sell the weapons to, if not to us?" Sharp-suit growled, unmoving.

"Nobody, I swear!“ The boy sobbed. „We were supposed to hide them, contact someone – _YOU_ , contact you to take them away, that was the plan, please, believe me !“

 „No one has contacted us so far.“ The Russian mutters.

"I know nothing about that, sir, I was in charge of just guarding the rear door. I don't know anything.“

The tsar of all Russians turned to him sharply .

"It would seem your comrades tricked you,“ he sneered. „ They gave you in to the cops. Actually, you're the lucky one, you’ll be treated by the National Police! Your friends, on the other hand, will be taken care of by my employer, they're as good as dead. Compared to him, the cops will seem like angels to them. Don't expect anything from me. You're on your own!“ Ivan the Terrible said, strode to the door and left.

 

Michal cried, burying his face in his hands.

What should he do, _what should he do, for the love of God?_

He cried at the perspective of spending the rest of his liffe rotting away in a French prison. God, they promised it wouldn’t happen. He wasn’t even 17, for God’s sake.

He just wanted to make a difference. He though that if he followed orders, he would be a man. His homies would take him seriously at last, and that’s all he wanted. He had no idea who the orders came from, and most of his comrades surely knew no better.

God, he was on his own, his friends unsuspecting. He had to warn them somehow.

Someone had to help him.

_The cops will seem like angels..._

He wiped his eyes and started shouting in broken French at the closed door.

 

**"Please, come here, I’ll talk!“**

 

 

***  

 

Treville handed a cup of coffee from the vending machine to man in suit. Captain guess that Armand didn't know, that there shall not walk alone. He wasn't angry nor the police, which had a door guard. To hell with the rules, for once.

"What the Hell did you tell him?“ He asked, shining like morning light. „He spit out everything, he basically turned himself in. We just sent a SWAT team.“

 _Alright, I've solved your case. Could we get out for a drink now?_  Armand wanted to say but, unfortunately, what he took a sip from happened to be he most disgusting coffee in the world, and he forgot the last 5 minutes of his own life.

"Jesus christ..." he shuddered.

"I'm so sorry, it's pretty bad... you know what? I invite you to our mess.“ The Captain laughed.

"Oh, God, it could be even worse..."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Music from this part: 

Dave Brubeck - Take Five

[HERE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vmDDOFXSgAs)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm grateful for every comment!


	6. Thank you for the company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to FreyaLor for betareading!

 

 

The captain laughed and climbed back up the stairs, leaving Armand sitting on a bench, with a cup in his hand. He tall man swirled his coffee fo a while befoe he threw it in the bottom of a trashcan nearby.

Not exactly the _rendez-vous_ he pictured in his mind, but well.

 

He stood up, straightened his jacket, opened the door and followed the Capain wh had disappeared in the labyrinth this station was. Armand strode down the central corridor, eyeing he policemen on the way, having most of them stepping back. They took him for the State Attorney, or another lawyer. They all hought better not to ask anyway, just move aside.

 

Armand chose to head towards where those men holding sandwiches and coffee came from. He found the canteen this way, where the whole Paris Police Force turned to stare at him.

Now would be the right time to start a tap dance, he thought.

But he just smoothened the lapels of his shirt instead, making it as snobbish as he could. Sweeping a sullen stare over the canteen, he spotted Treville, coming to him with an apologetic look on his face.

"I'm sorry, I forgot you didn‘t don't know where the canteen is." he smiled as he grabbed him by the elbow.

A lot of emotions burst in Armand at that moment. The touch, that typical policemen straightforward touch, sparked the urge to tear Treville to shreds, strike him down and disappear. Captain blue-eyes or not, he could also punch him just for what he said.

_No one just forgets me, I am Armand Du Plessis, hereditary duke of Richelieu, a member of one of the oldest French families._

 

But Treville meant no harm, he was – and that could be even worse- he was just happy. Or perhaps he ws just blatantly honest. Or maybe a little bit interested?

 

Because, to him, I am only _Armand Newman?_

 

He didn’t fight. He just stared, a bit stiff, as he let Treville drag him to the counter.

A tray with coffee, juice, and chocolate desert just fell into his hand there, and there wasn’t a soul in the canteen who wasn’t watching them. It sure wasn’t a common thing, their Captain buying choclate cake for anyone.

 

"And there‘s whipped cream..." cheered Treville as he dumped an insane amount of sugary white mass on the cake.

Armand’s eyebrows seriously couldn’t rise higher if he tried.

"Would you like sugar? Milk?“ Captain Blue-eyes asked softly. He nodded.

 _Yes, and while you’e at it, throw some carrot salad in there too._ Armand thought.

He regretted his eyebrows really couldn’t shoot any higher, because at that exact moment a plate of carrot salad landed on his tray. He opened his mouth, exhaled sharply.

The waitress laid down a plate of pork chop and potatoes on the couner. Treville moved it on his tray, grinning disarmingly

"Go to that table near the window“ He indicated, pointing at the only empty table of the hall, no doubt reserved for high-ranking officers. „I'll be right there."

Armand instinctively moved his left hand under the tray, exactly in the middle of it, and carried it one-handedly around a crowd of gaping police officers. He stopped at the table, quietly removing the empty plates and trays of the previous occupants, better than any waiter would, and if there was anyone who succeeded at ignoring him by then, well, he was definitely joining the staring lot.

Armand realized he had no knife or fork, but Treville was coming close, slamming his ray on the table, pushing back his chair and slumping down on it. His tray held a whole full meal, and an extra knife, fork, and insanely large spoon ha he handed to Armand. He sharp-suit man took the cutlery and unbuttoned his jacket left-handedly, settling on the opposite chair.

"I‘d like to say thank you-" The Captain began, grabbing a soup bowl and starting to eat.

Armand wached him select a few poatoes with a spoon, expecting the rest of he sentence for  while, though it never came.

Jean put down the empty  bowl on the edge of the table and moved to the pork chop late next.Then, he apparently remembered that he wasn‘t alone. He lifted his head.

"If you wanted soup, I can still get some..." he muttered.

"No!“ Armand let out. „I mean, no thank you."

Treville gave him a bright smile and threw himself on his food.

 

With that, Armand realised. There wasn’t any music. Nothing. Merely dimly smothering advertising from the canten radio, nothing else. The clatter of dishes, calls for orders, laughter. He leaned over the table. All he wanted was coffee, and he got coffee, chops and chocolate-cake, dripping with that nasty kind of spray whipped cream.

 

And then he suddenly recalled the main theme from [The Gendarme of St Tropez](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LBgJxfDPbrw).

He burst into laughter. The Captain shot him a stunned look, a fork filled with pork chop halfway to is mouth.

And wihout a reason, he laughed wih him.

 

 

 

*** 

 

As we came out of the canteen, I fell behind, distracted by a call from Porthos.

 

The SWAT inervention had been a success,they caught all he guys alive, and ensured all stolen weapons. Armand came to walk next to me, jacket on, the silver pen glimmering in his pocket. This wasn´t exactly how I imagined our next meeting, but hat’s he best I could do. When I have a case, everything else needs to step aside. Well, now that the case was solved, I slowly began to realise how insufferable I might be.

God, tell me I just didn’t take that man to he bloody _canteen._

That man over there, in a tailored suit. And what did I do befoe that? I offered him coffee from a _vending machine_. Yep. Great. I fucked up completely.

I slid my phone in my pocket, holding the door open for him. We walked down the steet to a few stairs. He pulled out his car keys and eyed his black Saab.

„It was good to see you“ I started, nervous, as I fished out a pack of cigarettes. Hell, _empty._

I spent this day under pressure, I’ve smoked them all.

"I should go through the reports and check the press release now..." I fumbled, watching his lean hand slid into the inner pocket of his suit to pull out a silver cigarette case. He opened it, pulled one cigarette out for his own mouth, and handed me the open box. I felt like a kid again, picking up a Davidoff and rubbing it wih my fingertips.

He closed the case, put it back in his pocket and lifted his lighter Dupont to me.

I brought the cigarette to my lips and leaned closer to the flame. He did the same thing. Our eyes momentarily met, then he exhald, and a puff of smoke formed between us. He straightened himself, the lighter disappeared.

He stood next to me, and I forgot to smoke.

"Thank you for the company." he smiled.

I stood like a woodplank as he stepped to the road. He stopped on he tarmac, though, hesitating perhaps. I don’t know, was watching the smoke dancing above his left hand.

He came back to me all of a sudden, passing through the cloud of his own smoke, and there he was, standing close to me, his right palm touching my jaw.

 

And he gently pressed the side of his face against mine.

His lips lightly touched my ear.

 

_I felt like an electric shock._

All I could do was lift my hand in a haste and touch his throat. That's all I got.

He turned around, walked to the road, got into his car and drove off.

The cigarette slowly burned out in my unmoving hand.

 

 

 

 


	7. The Cage of Fools

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great thanks to FreyaLor for her support and betareading!

 

Treville had loved his wife.

He’d always loved women, he didn’t even need to ponder about it. It was pure evidence.

He saw that movie as a kid, La Cage aux Folles, and he liked that guy Renato. He genuinely thought that, though men loving other men were quite a normal thing, they mostly played in comedy movies. The belief held fast right until High School. That’s why he felt rather surprised when his best friend Louis announced that he was probably gay. Jean asked him Louis he fancied him, and his friend nodded. Such an interesting discovery, for someone who never cared to consider the question. ‚Okay, that’s nice, but I like girls‘ was all he could say.

Louis and him are still friends, though they fell out of contact, somehow.

 

When he joined the Police force, he was still persuaded everyone has the right to love whoever they want. This wasn’t the most popular opinion in the Force those days. His Police career still bloomed, and his personal life lit up one quiet day of August, as he met his future wife. It wasn’t anything special, they were both invited by mutual friends at some garden party. Their relationship was, well, Jean probably wouldn´t use this word, _practical_. Concerning Hélène, there had never been any kind of thunderflash, but she did consider him a suitable man, who could provide for her,materially and emotionally. Naturally, they started living together, and after two years of marriage, she gave birth to their son.

Twelve years later, while he was busy in the garden fixing his son’s bike, Hélène came to him, announcing flatly that she wanted a divorce.

 

What did he say to that? Nothing.

He knew that love takes two. He loved his wife and was content with whatever he had. He never dared to think he might ask anything else from a woman than to wait for him at home, and from a son to tell old cars apart. Life, it seemed, was full of changes.

He accepted the divorce, moved out, and of course devoted all of himself to his work. The fact that he became Captain meanwhile didn’t help. He still loved his wife after all. Well, his ex-wife. Only after time did he realize there were other women in the world. A few he only greeted, a few he spent one night with. Some lingered for a while, but nothing was the same. Something was missing. Jean kept comparing them to Hélène, as most ‚good guys‘ do.

 

Don’t get him wrong, he wasn’t weak. He earned respect wherever he went to. He could get angry, he could explode, and growl policemen or criminals back into place quickly enough.

He just loved his wife too much.

And then he met that man.

 

 

 

 

The man with the black Bagheera, with those tailored suits, who gazed at his with those eyes, as dark as night. He couldn't compare him with Helen, he couldn’t even think of her.

This man wasn’t like Renato from la Cage aux Folles, or any gay man he ever knew.

He was different, unique, _special._

 

He felt attraction. Uncontrollable, animalistic attraction, even though it was against his – what, beliefs, way of life? Jean felt desire, though he tried to deny it with every cell of his body, making him feel unnatural and stupid. He didn’t consider himself homosexual. He didn’t consider himself at all. But right now, he could at least admit that he might love men. Or at least, this specific man.

 

This specific man he didn’t know the name of, but the phone number instead.

 

*

 

Armand parked the Saab in the garage, switched off the engine and waited until the hinge door closed completely. He stepped out of his Swedish pet and walked over the only French car in the garage.

He opened the door, sat down behind the wheel. He didn’t start the car, he just shut the door and stared at the dashboard for a while. Then he raised a hand, lowering one of the sun visors, and stared at the picture that had been stuck there for ten long years. Two men with that black Bagheera. Only one of them still alive.

He clapped the visor up with a sigh.

 

 

Among the large span of his abilities, alas, strength was not to be counted.

 

He had always been skinny, but the fault had been compensated with education and intellectual self-esteem. He handled many foreign languages, had a keen interest in music, culture, technique and politics. Moreover, he always had a very distinct talent for manipulating people to do what he wanted, and yet think it's their idea. Those skills, and his noble origins and heirdom, ensured him a fairly decent living, and quite enough material ease to express his love for cars.

He became the Man in the Shadows, unofficial advisor for the French Government.

Many aliases, numbers in his cellphone, never a name, always numerical codes.

Many accounts, both official and unofficial. Lots of money on each and every one of them.

Many enemies.

 

 

He didn’t trust a lot of people. Not only because his true identity was a secret.

Because, as has already been said, he was not very strong.

 

 

 

The first time he was beaten up, it was three classmates at boarding school, when he was 9. They beat him, because he was the smallest. Simply enough. He ended up at the hospital, and his mother checked out of the school that day. He felt, however, that Fate owed him something. Not being able to face the enemy for revenge was worse than defeat. At his new school, there were a lot of other boys, and they all chose to show off the same way: by beating the life out of the thin, black-eyed boy.

Armand bought the scout guide, finding self-defense hints and tips there. Beside the necessary escape strategies, he found out the advantage of clenching his first around something solid like keys or a pen, as it makes the strikes more efficient.

He memorized it.

He read several other books on that subject, and a few anatomy textbooks.  
He watched some Bruce Lee movies with his brother.

He memorized them all.

 

Not too long later, as he was surrounded by that group of boys again in the school yard, and the biggest of them started punching, Armand gripped a pen in his pocket, stomped on his foot and hit him hard in the face. The huge boy fell on his knees, and Armand threw himself at the next one, breaking his nose, making him run away, taking most of the other boys on his tail.

Young, thin Armand yelled at their backs that if they tried anything more, he would turn their lives into Hell.

He thought, later, that he could have spared himself the passionate speech, and that better punches would be enough, but it worked quite fine at the time.

 

The second time, it was by two skinheads, because he passed them by on the street. The reason was indicative enough of their intellect. But, truth be told, they were stronger, and their first blow came from behind. He woke up at the hospital again, decided to push his fighting skills up another level.

By well-placed connections, he obtained close-combat lessons from a military teacher Colonel who couldn’t usually teach any civilian. He explained Armand a lot about how your own strength didn’t matter. The Colonel told him once to choose the best gun. Grinning, he replied that swords can be defeated by a pen. The next day, the Colonel brought him a few contact pens, and taught him how to use them.

Their regular workouts had one more unexpected impact. Armand fell in love with his teacher. He tried to push it away for quite a long time, thinking his feelings weren’t returned, but he was wrong. They hid their relationship, as homosexuality wasn’t quite popular in the Army. Officially, of course. They began to live together in one of the Armand´s apartments in Paris.

 

The Colonel’s car hit a landmine three years later, and he died somewhere in the afghan desert.  
A neatly nailed coffin and one ring with a black stone was all that came back. Armand kept his black Bagheera, parked in his garage.

He got absolutely nothing else, as he was the lover no one ever knew about.

 

The third time, some thieves tried to beat him up in the parking garage. It was a few days after the funeral. They wanted to steal his car.

Two of them had knives, one had an old Cezeta gun.

That was the first time Armand killed a man.

He later learned that the dead man was a recidivist, long wanted by the police. Besides, Armand had enough connections, and since many people owed him, the garage attacked received very little media coverage.

 

After that, he lost count.

 

The loss of the only person he ever loved sparkled the need to take revenge on the whole world.

He went out at night, did a lot of dangerous things, drank too much, and whenever someone attacked him, truly, he thanked him in his mind, before he threw himself into the fight. He drove around Paris in that Bagheera like a madman, and he didn’t care if he got home with a bloodstained shirt.

He didn’t care. _He wanted to die_.

 

 

It may be a bit cliché, but time does heal wounds. He slowly began to walk in the streets again, but much more than ever before he concentrated on his work. It required a constant look upon everything, maintaining and building contacts in several parties. He analyzed, considered, took stock, interpreted and deduced. The only variable he couldn’t get a grip on was terrorism.

You can model crowd reactions to natural disasters, accidents, socio-economic changes, but you can’t predict that moron who will blow himself in the subway, because it lacks any form of rationality and self-preservation. You can’t control idiots.

However, not matter how governments and policies changed, he remained.

His accounts stayed open in countless Parisian cafés. Armand, the servant of France, private counsellor, advisor of the advisors. Armand, the patriot.

 

 


End file.
